Shadows
by Garrae
Summary: "I want to forget," she replies, weary sadness dripping through her voice. "I just want to forget. Just tonight." She raises her face to his for the first time. "Kiss me. I'll never see you again after tonight, so kiss me." An AU meeting, for the Hallowe'en Bash 2017.
1. Chapter 1

_But if you try so hard, you just might find, you get what you need – Rolling Stones_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

He's hungry. He hasn't been hungry for a long time: not like this, anyway. He's been bored for most of that time: too many pretty, pliant women with no personality; or alternatively the twin harpies of his ex-wives: boring and appalling at once in their different ways. Why he'd thought it a good idea to go straight from one to the other… contrast, he supposes.

Or possibly just stupidity. He still manages that rather more often than he'd like or want. That hasn't changed, success, past, ex-wives or not.

It's cold and lonely in this deep dark night, but he can see a potential paradise in the light of the sign. How appropriate for Hallowe'en: for All Hallow's Eve, a time of spooks and saints; ravens and ravagers; angels and devils alike. His writer's spark adores Hallowe'en: he's never bored on this night.

 _The Old Haunt_ , he reads. How very, very appropriate: now, and then. He saunters down the steps and in.

The bar is dark, a little seedy still: just like it used to be – ooohhh, they've put his _photo_ up, now he _knows_ he's a success. Took long enough, though his first efforts (the ones that he never even tried to have published) were truly awful. Too much Gothic horror, too much inspiration from the original inventors of the macabre. Finally, though, he'd found his milieu: thrillers with a proper theme; macabre mysteries with a proper ending.

And now he is, as he has always wanted to be, Richard Edgar Castle: rich; handsome (ruggedly so), famous (or notorious: he doesn't mind).

And bored, and hungry. Which he doesn't want to be, but is.

He looks around, piercing the gloom and the busy bar, and spots his favourite nook. There's someone in it. He pouts, disappointed, and then looks again. Someone is a woman, youngish – maybe twenty-two? Younger than him, certainly, by some distance. She's also stunning. There's a glass on the table in front of her, half empty: there is another one pushed away.

This is a woman trying to drown her sorrows. Maybe she's had a bad break up? A flicker of interest rises: he wants to know her story. He always wants to know the story. He purchases the best Scotch they have, and approaches. As he gets closer, the flicker of interest in her story is joined by a flare of interest simply in her. Stunning isn't the word. She's _exactly_ designed to be perfect for him: brunette (he's always liked brunettes… and blondes, and redheads… truthfully, he just likes women) with a reddish wash through it, undoubtedly a dye job but it's very fitting: a little bloodlike sheen; slim, though the curves are _totally_ enticing and he would love to find out how they fit his hands; and (he thinks) legs from here to Texas. He can just see the shine of her shoes, about six inches further along than he'd expect.

Perfect.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asks. "Everywhere else is occupied." It is. He rarely lies. It's too much trouble to keep track of the lies. Except one lie, of course. He keeps very careful track of that lie.

She makes a weary half-gesture. "Go ahead." He can hear thick misery pooled in her voice, and sits anyway. She stares at her glass, and the table, sightlessly; her hands pale and still, as if it's too much effort to move them further to take her drink and sip.

He swallows a mouthful of Scotch, enjoying the burn, and, most unusually, stays quiet. Near her, his hunger for something different, something – or someone – new, has dulled to a low throb in his body: still a need, but he knows that now he's found what he needs, and he can wait to capture it.

"I need another," she says.

"I'll get them. What was it?"

"Vodka tonic. Single."

He gets the feeling that this is unusual: that she'd normally protest, forbid some stranger from buying her drinks. He ignores that, and orders, exactly what she'd requested. When he sits again, he's closer. She doesn't notice, simply stares into the cold, clear liquid: surely it's reflecting in her eyes.

Or not. When he looks again, there's cold, clear liquid at the corners of her eyes: not a reflection at all. He concentrates for a second. She shivers.

"Are you cold?"

"No," she ghosts out. "Tired."

"Long day?"

"Yeah."

He slips a fraction nearer yet, and concentrates again, and sips his Scotch as she shivers once more. There. That's it. She hasn't quite noticed, yet.

"Wanna talk about it?"

The clear liquid pools. She dashes at her eyes.

"I don't know you, and you don't know me, so it's not like you're admitting stuff to a friend, is it?" he coaxes. "No skin in the game." Another instant of concentration. A shadow flickers behind her. She shifts a little towards him, and he exerts some self-control not to slide an arm around her unhappiness. He's always been driven to fix things. It's probably how he ended up here.

"I need another," she says. "My turn."

"Sure. Scotch for me."

It could be an excuse, but he doesn't think so, and sure enough, she returns with another two glasses. Her legs are even longer than he'd anticipated, and even after the amount she's put away, her walk would make the angels stop and stare. Castle is _definitely_ no angel, and he stares. It makes up for the gap where she'd been, and where –

Well, now. That's interesting. When she sat back down, she's much nearer. This won't take much longer… He concentrates for just a little longer, this time, and almost has to sit on his hand not to wrap that, too, around her. She wriggles, as if she's getting comfortable, and slugs back a healthy mouthful. It seems to break the barrier.

"It's been a hell of a day," she bites out.

 _You have no idea_ ,Castle thinks, _but we can certainly have one hell of a night, if that's what you're looking for_. If that's what she needs.

"I'm a cop."

"Really? That's so cool," he blurts, and then quails (yes, he can still quail, he discovers) at the scathing glare. "Sorry. Rough case?"

"You could say that."

She downs her drink again. That's the fourth, and even with single shots that must surely be starting to have an effect? He concludes that she's looking for oblivion, which is something he can undoubtedly provide.

"My mom died."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and concentrates again. She slips closer, as if invisibly cuddled in. Another shadow flickers in the booth, and disappears; reappears and disappears again.

"My dad's head down in a bottle." Pause. "They called me to collect him and I wouldn't go." A tear escapes. "I wouldn't go," she tries not to sob. "It doesn't matter if I go or not go because he won't ever stop."

Castle's arm is round her shuddering shoulders without his thought or any conscious decision. No-one will see, he's made sure of that. But he hadn't expected that story. Bad break-up, yeah. He's seen a few of those, in his time. She's stiff-spined, rigid-shouldered beneath his hand. The persistent throb of hunger for something different takes on a more demanding beat. He hasn't felt that in a very long time.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Let it go for now." He can feel the tears falling. "Sometimes you have to save yourself. C'mere." He pulls a little, encircling her. No-one could see them, now. The shadows fall about them in the dim light. "Just let it go. I've got you."

"I don't know you," she mumbles. "I ought to recognise you" – ooops, no, don't recognise him – "but I don't. Who cares, anyway?" Her voice drops away, but Castle's excellent ears hear her breathed out misery. "No-one cares about me." Her head comes round and drops on his shoulder. "Just one night," she whispers, almost below the limit of hearing. "Why not? Chase the ghosts away."

If only she knew the ghosts he has, and why. Still, his ghosts are no concern of hers.

"When better than Hallowe'en to chase any ghosts away," he rumbles lazily, and tightens his grip in the now deep shadow. "What do you want?"

"I want to forget," she replies, weary sadness dripping through her voice. "I just want to forget. Just tonight." She raises her face to his for the first time. "Kiss me. I'll never see you again after tonight, so kiss me."

She will see him. The insistent pulsing will ensure that he sees her again. Oh yes. For an instant, the wavering, smoky shadows appear to solidify, enclosing them both, sweeping up and over their heads.

He leans down, hand slipping up over her neck to cup her skull, his other arm coming around to encircle her; oh, so slowly, so that she can still, always, draw back and say _no_ , always her choice. Consent is a necessity, in Castle's world.

"Kiss me," she pleads.

Her lips are soft as he touches them, warm beneath his, a little parted. The thrumming in his veins increases: irresistibly powerful. Something about this sadness, her mourning, calls to him in a way he's never felt; her story filling his head; the taste of her lips surging into his nerves. He kisses her slowly, gently, no force, no sweeping passion. Not yet. He wants to, wants to lose himself in her; her to lose herself in him. But not yet, not here.

Still, the kiss deepens, passion rises, he begins to take her mouth more assertively and she responds, herself demanding, taking and giving back. His hand drops to her hip, hers are in his hair, pulling him down. She sweeps and steals his lips again, nips, not quite hard enough to break the skin but certainly enough to fire him up.

The shadows are solid now: black around them and soaring to crossed points high above her head, enveloping them. He lifts away for a second, and she makes a tiny noise of complaint.

"More?" he entices. The shadows thin and hide in the gloom.

She looks around. "Not here. Come with me." That, he thinks, was rather the point; and goes with her. Behind him, the shadows swoop and flutter, trailing, and then curve around her slim form.

"What's your name?"

"Kate," she allows him, stopping there. He doesn't ask for more: instead he whistles down a taxi, and makes it clear he's not listening to the address she gives.

It's dark in the cab, and he cuddles her in once more: strong arms around her in the dark, gentle patterns on her shoulder; the shadows dancing over her face, stroking it. She's so soft against him, and he wonders that she can't hear the beating in his nerves, the pulsing in his mind. He can almost hear her heart, the blood flowing through her veins; the sluggish misery in her whole demeanour. He cossets her closer, a tiny touch of passion, a smidgeon of arousal; and it lightens her; she leans into him and brings her lips to his again.

Too soon they're at her block. She tries to pay the cab, but he forestalls her.

"My treat," he murmurs. "Allow me."

"Whatever. Thank you."

At her door he hesitates.

"Come in," she invites, and only then he moves. He shuts the door tidily, looks around at the space, and then finally looks at her in full light. She's stunning: gorgeous, taking off her gun and shield to put them away; long legs stepping out of high heels; brown eyes flecked green and gold but still liquid with pain.

He steps forward and gathers her in: a little more assertion, because after all she's invited him here, and invited him to make her forget, and there's one sure way to achieve that. He bends a little, knotting fingers through her hair, slants her skull to the perfect angle and smoothly, suavely takes her mouth once more with all the leashed power and extensive experience at his command. She sighs and concedes the lead to him, letting him heat her up and hold her in, owning her sweet, soft mouth and feeling her rising arousal in the press of her form against him. His coat slips off; hers already gone: she's so receptive and so hot: flame against his cool skin.

He enfolds her, and the shadows that trail him swirl around and behind and enclose her: binding her into him. Her eyes shut beneath his kiss, she doesn't notice, but he does, and keeps her closer yet. Impatience won't serve him here.

"So pretty," he murmurs, darkly seductive. "You're gorgeous."

Her eyes blink open, hazed and heated, wide-pupilled and dilated. "Like your eyes," she returns. "Always liked blue eyes." He smiles, sleepily, strokes one hand down her back in acceptance of the compliment. "Kiss me again."

Who is he to refuse her invitations? The rule is clear, he has to be invited. He never goes where he's not invited, no matter the hungry throbbing and desire. But here and now, he's invited.

"Still want to forget?"

"Oh, yes," she sighs out on a long breath of pain. "Help me forget."

The hand on her back slides down, spreading wide over her ass, pressing her in against the hard arousal and firm welcome of his need. Her hips roll and she squirms, rubbing over him, taking his mouth as he had an instant ago taken hers. A long leg lifts around his waist, and suddenly slow and suave is turning to hot burn.

He raids her lips, and then he pushes her shirt from her waist and finds smooth skin beneath. She wriggles.

"Cold hands," she complains, and he grins, a flash of white teeth.

"They'll be warm in a moment." And they are; heating as he does; everything speeding up as he seeks and finds hot response and he can't stop, can't resist any longer, nips her full lip and tastes the drop of blood –

And the shadows around her spring close to full solidity: black wings imprisoning them both as he drowns her in his passion, lets his hunger spring free and savour the single drop her lips have given to him, touches her with hard, hot intent and she's not noticed the midnight around her, not yet; drugged with her own desire. It's too soon for that. Always, forever, too soon for that.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Okay, so two Hallowe'en Bash fics is probably at least one too many, but the idea floated into my head so I wrote it. Two chapters of Hallowe'en Sexy. You have a choice: second chapter tomorrow or second chapter Wednesday. Misdirection will conclude tomorrow regardless. (barring tragic accident, of course, or being eaten by the ghosts in the dark...)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

His fingers start to turn her liquid, wanton and wanting both, slipping the buttons of her shirt free to expose the clean cream skin, unmarred and unmarked, so open to him: he'll taste it, but not yet. Not. Yet. She mews, and pushes against his hands, wanting more. He gives her something, a palm carefully pressing, a thumb scraping the swelling curve, flicking too briefly over the hard point below the flimsy silk and lace covering. Her hands clutch on his neck, and then slither downward, opening his shirt in turn.

"Smooth move," he purrs, and brings her skin to skin. "How about some more?"

"Shut up and kiss me," she orders, a spark of what must be her real personality arriving. "I wanna forget."

"As you command."

He kisses her hard, searching, swiftly moving from that delicious mouth and the tiny cut on her lip to her jaw, her neck, the blood in the large vein there pounding. He kisses over it, and she wriggles in his grip, one wicked hand dropping to his belt and she's still missing the key matter here but does it matter to him with the hunger beating on his brain and the vein under his mouth and her hand – _ohhhh_ – sliding into his pants and that's it, all control has officially gone and he can't help himself, one hand frantically opening her pants and pushing them down for free access, the other clamped round her head so she can't move and he desperately goes back to her hot, wet mouth, nipping but she likes that, he can feel it through her body and the way she shudders against him and he has to stay clear of her neck. The blood on her lip tastes so good and he's addicted already but he can't, he mustn't, he shouldn't.

His hand runs between her legs and _ohhhhh_ she's soaked and emitting sexy little gasps and moans and his fingers stroke and pet and search out the edge of fabric to slip beneath and _ohhhhhh_ she feels better than he could have believed: slick and swollen with desire and it's time to move this elsewhere and make her forget everything but him, everything she wants to forget forgotten.

He picks her up effortlessly, the shadows ebbing and flowing as she opens her eyes.

"Why stand, when we don't need to?" he smirks. "Especially as pretty soon you might not be able to." He kisses her again, silencing her indignant commentary, and carries her to her bed, dropping her on her back and falling in beside her, examining her as the shadowy wings rear up from his back and shadow his face, only to fall away as he concentrates for an instant. Not yet. Not. Yet. But soon. Very, very soon.

"So very pretty, but you're wearing too many clothes," he growls. Her shirt hits the floor, leaving her only in underwear, stretching under his hot gaze and reaching up to stroke over the firm muscle of his chest.

"Stop complaining when you've still got your pants on," she points out.

"You want them off?"

"Yep."

He leaves the bed, and flexes, holding her gaze and holding total control. Not now. But she tasted so good and she will taste so good and he can hear her heart beating and scent the sweet smell of arousal and the small cut is still open on her lip and he wants it, her, all of her...

One drop is all it takes, when you find the right one, so he had read. One drop, one single, solitary drop. Don't let it go: you'll never find it again. He'd never thought he'd find it, now, tried so hard and married twice but never knew what he didn't have. And here it is in front of him, here she is: lush and pale-cream beautiful: crimson lips and dark hair with darker eyes, aroused and open and ready and the blood flowing hot in her veins.

He strips, giving her the show she wanted, displaying to her his strength and size, not concealing his own proud desire.

"Come back?" she asks. "Come back here."

He doesn't walk, now, he prowls. She watches him all the way: hot eyes dark and dilated, flecks of greenish gold reflecting in the light from the main room, clear to his sight.

"You want me," he smiles wolfishly, "don't you?" She merely nods, and reaches for him. "You want to do bad things with me, don't you?" His voice has dropped into a sex-soaked drawl, promising everything erotic. She nods again. "Good," he rasps. "Because I want to do bad things with you too."

He leans over her, sliding a hand across her stomach, rising to palm her small, pert breast and finding that it does, indeed, fit his grasp perfectly, sized to his span. She likes that, curving up to him for more, playing with his nipples to light him up.

His mouth wanders across the ivory cover to her clavicles, and she breathes harder as he drops downward and puts his mobile lips to the satin skin, light kisses and then he settles to the task and licks and suckles – but never nips or bites. If he does that… he might go too far, too soon. Her fingers tug in his hair, and she purrs, already more relaxed and easy, the pain in her voice and posture receding. Forgetting.

"More," she breathes.

Oh yes. More is what she'll get. He slithers down towards that enticing taste and scent, dropping little kisses as he goes, spreading her around him, teasing her by shifting left and right, hearing the tiny gasps change to soft moans. He wriggles a little, breathes across her and she writhes and locks her ankles over his back. His hands meet her thighs, hers have never left his head, and talented fingers stroke the inner face of her legs till she can't stop the pleading mixed with orders to do more, do something, stop _teasing_.

"I like teasing," he murmurs. "I said I'd make you forget," and he stops teasing and starts touching more firmly, stroking through wet heat and following with a wicked lick, ending with an evil curl around the knot of over-sensitised nerves and she cries out.

He can't resist: slides up her body and enters her mouth and slick heat at once: she cries out again but he swallows it, deep within her and he's lost, nips at her lip again because he _must not_ nip elsewhere but the sweet blood on his tongue is too much and she's arching and curving and crying out beneath him and he thrusts and it's explosive release for them both and –

"What the _hell_ is _that_?"

 _Oh, shit_. Talk about _shooting too soon_. He's never suffered from premature eruptions before.

His wings droop and fall around them: he's lost the chance to let the shadows fall away and dissolve.

"What sort of a trick is that to pull?"

He guesses she's forgotten about her earlier misery, because that sounds like a woman who is ready to shoot to kill.

"It might be Hallowe'en, but that's just crass."

"Ow!"

She's waved her hand through them, and it _hurts_.

"How'd you do that?"

Even angry and disbelieving, when she sits up stark naked, eyes ablaze and a glare that could melt mountains (and probably does), she's scorching hot. Unfortunately, she's also utterly infuriated, and… oh, _shit_ , she'd said she was a cop. An investigator. Oh, _hell_.

" _Ow!_ That hurts! Stop it."

"Where'd you hide the smoke canisters? I didn't see them or feel them earlier."

She stops waving her hand through them, much to Castle's relief. Not to his relief, she tries to push him off her on to his front. He declines to be pushed. He really does not want her examining anything. Worse, he can't simply tuck them away now, because that'll really raise questions.

It's not fair. He's found his soulmate and through his own inability to control himself she's regarding him as if he's a complete jackass.

She wriggles out from under him faster than an oiled eel and sits across his thighs. In any other circumstance, that would be hugely arousing and he'd take full advantage… " _Ow!_ Will you _stop_ that? It hurts."

"Stop pretending it hurts. They have to be fake. What sort of jerk fakes wings in _bed_?"

She runs a sharp nail along the joint where one shadowy wing meets his back. It tickles, and he wriggles and squirms and squeaks.

"There's no edge. No canister," she says, confused, and then stops cold. "Who the hell _are_ you," she breathes, and her eyes widen: she suddenly moves and he grabs for her, stopping her dash for her gun and pinning her back down to the bed.

"I'm the guy who's making you forget, just like you wanted. It's Hallowe'en, just roll with it," he says, and plunges into her mouth again. Astonishingly, she responds and reacts and opens to him and when he lifts off for a moment, she speaks.

"You are," she says. "So stop messing around with dumb Hallowe'en jokes and _make_ me forget."

That's not an invitation he intends to refuse. "You wanna forget? You'll forget your own name, by the time I'm done with you tonight." And maybe she'll forget his indiscretion, too. The shadowy wings slip away, as her eyes close and her mouth opens.

He falls on her parted lips again and skims a hand down, playing with her breasts, and then further down to tantalise and tease and make her writhe and whimper and beg him for more; his thick, long fingers wreaking havoc on her body and bringing her hot and liquid and focused only on him, holding her there until there's nothing in her eyes but lust and deep, desperate desire to be sent flying and shattering.

He listens to the pitch of her cries until he's certain she can't think any longer, fills her with his fingers and flicks across her to take her screaming to explosion and then lax satisfaction.

Which is fine for her, but he's hard and hot and unsatisfied, and he wants her all over again.

"Come here," he purrs, and pulls her against him. "You haven't forgotten yet," and works her up again until she parts and moans and grips his back and welcomes him in again; tight and hot and so very wet around him: no thought, only sensation. He kisses her until he's had his fill of her; then moves from mouth to jaw to ear to neck and the spot over the pulsing vein and then, all _shouldn't_ and _mustn't_ and _won't_ and _can't_ forgotten, bites down and pierces the translucent skin to reach the hot sweet liquid below.

His wings flare out again: wide and black in the clean, spare bedroom; smokily feathered with sharp talons at the fore and rear edges. He leaves her neck, licks once across to leave no trace: no hickeys here, no punctures, no flaw in the perfect ivory, touches her intimately and surges over to his own orgasm on the tide of hers.

He pulls the shadows back and away, before she can see them again: nips his own lip sharply to draw blood and mingles that with the trace of hers still on his tongue, and kisses her deeply, searchingly.

"Forget," he whispers. "Forget everything for tonight." His heart cracks. "Forget tonight," he murmurs, and her eyes stay shut, sound asleep, all the time he dresses.

She'll be his always, his one and done, but not tonight. Never tonight. But… another time. Later. Later enough that she'll never remember him like this: never remember the wide black wings and sharp shadows trailing him.

He'll just have to get used to being hungry.

But still, he turns back to the bed, bends to leave a soft kiss on her brow, and the wings wrap around her in dark embrace. Her arms come round him, and he meets her mouth, kneeling by the bedframe.

"'S a _good_ prank," she murmurs. "Taking me under your wing. Stay."

And though he knows it's all sorts of wrong, stay he does: undresses again and slides in beside her, holds her close with arms and encompassing shadows, listening to the beat of her heart and the pulse of blood in her veins, and knows he's as trapped as she.

He wakes to find her still close, curled and soft against him, breathing slowly. In the dawning daylight, his shadows fade and dissipate; never visible in daytime. He dresses slowly, heavily. He's stayed too long, and now he's about to do something that he can't believe will work.

He scrawls a note, and concentrates hard.

 _If you believe in magic, hold this, say my name, and we'll meet again. Rick._

He lays the black feather across it, weighs it down with a handy paperweight, and leaves silently.

* * *

For months, there's nothing. He knows she's still in Manhattan: he doesn't have to try to seek her out: always aware of where she is, of the pulse of her heart. But she'd only wanted one night's forgetfulness, and he guesses that's it. He's found his always, but she doesn't feel the same.

A year later, long after he'd stopped expecting it, he feels the tug, and follows it back to the Old Haunt, where she's waiting in the same booth: a black feather on the table in front of her.

"Can we start again?" she says. "I haven't… it was real, whatever it was… whatever you are, I just want you."

When he sits, she takes his hand and slides up close.

"Take me under your wing."

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _To those in New York, support._

 _Apologies for those who wanted it yesterday. Things got in the way._


End file.
